


mother tongue

by hopefully



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopefully/pseuds/hopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts in practice with a word Yuzuru hasn't heard before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mother tongue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm obsessed with Yuzuru Hanyu.
> 
> There it is, folks. That's really all there is to it. I've fallen hard for this amazing, humble, adorable, incredibly talented Japanese figure skater and I couldn't get up if I wanted to (and I don't).
> 
> Fic is inspired by conversations between me and my friend on the relationship between Yuzu and Javier Fernández, his training partner in Toronto.
> 
> Enjoy.

It starts in practice with a word Yuzuru hasn’t heard before.

“It’s all right, _querido_.” It’s a familiar reassurance from Javi, who skates up beside Yuzuru after he falls on a quad toe loop, leaning too far on the outside edge and falling hard onto the ice. Javi pats his back soothingly as he helps Yuzuru to his feet. He smiles gratefully in response.

It’s not the fact that it’s a foreign word that startles him. He’s gotten used to hearing words he doesn’t understand. Some of them even start to sound familiar in their unfamiliarity, like the Spanish ones Javi utters in frustration after a popped jump or a fall. _Mierda_ is one. _Cabrón_ is another. Yuzuru knows when he hears them to leave Javi alone, to let him cool off before he attempts another difficult jump or combo, because he understands the pain behind retreating into the safety of one’s own language.

But there’s something about the way Javi breathes the word on a sigh, as if to cradle it momentarily on his tongue, that gives Yuzuru pause. But then, he thinks, surely he must be overthinking things, as usual. He settles back into practice mode, allowing the warmth of Javi’s encouragements to bring a steady calm to his mind.

On his next try, Yuzuru lands the jump perfectly.

 

After that session, not much thought goes into the meaning of the endearment – " _Keh-ri-do_ ," he tries to replicate the sound of it in his head – and he doesn’t bother consulting a dictionary. He and Javi share a precarious companionship, hanging somewhere between friends, colleagues and competitors, and he values that balance too much to question a word uttered in a moment of friendly reassurance. They are training partners in a cutthroat sport. They can be kind when they need to be, and competitive when the moment demands. Their relationship is simply, purely professional.

This is admittedly, however, easier said than done. Yuzuru can count on a few fingers the number of times he’s caught himself staring at Javi out on the ice, which is a few more times than he’d like, but it is what it is. He tries to chalk it up to admiration for his fellow athlete, to the respect he feels toward those who share his passion for their sport. But it’s more than that, and Yuzuru knows it. He sees Javi’s toned legs, his broad shoulders and steady arms, and of course, his boyish smile when he perfects a particularly tricky spin, and realizes with muted horror that the dull ache in his chest cannot be attributed to mere admiration.

Yuzuru sighs and runs his hands through his hair, tries to remind himself to keep his eyes on the prize. But increasingly, he finds it difficult to remember what that even is anymore.

 

It’s a few weeks later, with the Grand Prix Final and Nationals looming nearer, and Yuzuru is determined to be perfect. He practices relentlessly until the moves are like breath in his lungs, breezy yet controlled. Every jump, every turn and every spin must be at his command, and he is closer than ever to that perfection.

He glides to the edge of the rink at the end of a particularly smooth run-through, where Coach deposits a blessedly cold bottle of water into his gloved hand. He gulps it down with abandon, delighting in the rush of moisture to his parched throat. Suddenly, he feels a presence behind him and a warm hand on his shoulder. He turns. It’s Javi.

“Good job out there, _corazón_. Very nice work. You get better every day.” The smile is genuine, its warmth bleeding into every word, especially those three foreign syllables.

It’s a new one, one he’s sure he’s never heard before, and Yuzuru struggles out a “thank you” as he tries to wrap his head around it. They engage in some idle chit-chat about entry techniques, but the foreign endearment keeps ricocheting off the walls of his mind. Absently, he glances at Coach to see if he wants to enter the conversation.

What he sees on Coach’s face defies easy categorization, but there are currents of something in his eyes, in the furrow of his brow, and it catches Yuzuru’s breath. A dawning of realization, maybe. A hint of worry. Understanding. Yuzuru gulps, his throat dry again.

For the rest of the week, he wonders.

 

The endearments come frequently now, and there are more of them. _Cariño_. _Pequeño_. _Tesoro_. At each new addition to the collection, Yuzuru’s head spins. He can’t seem to keep up, or keep his heart from leaping in spite of himself.

So he skates harder, jumps higher, praying for the wind in his ears to drown out the incessant loop of _amorcito_ , _precioso_ , _mi vida_. And when that doesn’t work, he excuses himself to splash water in his face, tells himself, _It’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing_.

He wishes he could make himself believe it.

 

Yuzuru wakes with a start early one morning from a dream that shakes him to his core. It’s not one of his nightmares, which usually consist of the ground shaking beneath him, the walls wobbling violently to and fro, or stepping out onto the ice only to find his feet won’t support him, falling and tripping till he has to crawl his way back to steady ground, limbs heavy with shame.

Instead, it’s a dream full of darkness and heat. Bodies pressed tightly together. Hands searching out one another in the darkness. Whispered words, panted hotly against his neck, a breathless litany of the same again and again – “ _Querido, querido, querido…_ ”

He sits upright, rubbing his eyes hard enough to bring out a brilliant watercolor of shapes dancing behind his eyelids. With a shaky sigh, he reaches into his bedside table and finds a dictionary, barely used, its spine still stiff.

Hands trembling and heart pounding, he leafs through the pages frantically, searching out every last word that’s been ringing in his ears for weeks and weeks on end.

The answers he finds are just what he feared.

 

Later that morning, Yuzuru marches into the rink on a mission. He goes to the place he knows Javi will be – by the vending machines, sipping a neon-colored performance drink – and lo and behold, he’s there. Yuzuru taps him on the shoulder, firm and urgent. It’s now or never.

Javi turns and smiles. “Hey! Good afternoon, _queri—_ “

“ _¿Qué significa ‘querido’?_ ” Yuzuru interrupts, and he knows it’s rude. The words are accented and broken, but he’s been practicing them ad nauseam since the morning, because he knows he needs a surefire way to get through to Javi - no jokes or silliness. As soon as the words leave his lips, Javi’s face falls. It worked.

Javi inhales softly. “Yuzuru…”

Yuzuru presses on. He’s not backing down. “ _¡Díme!_ ”

For a few beats, Javi is silent, his gaze measured, level. Then, he inhales deeply through his nose, breathing it out on a sigh and letting his shoulders drop. Yuzuru recognizes it immediately – resignation. Defeat.

“Yuzuru,” Javi starts, “I’m sorry, _amigo_. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’ll stop if you wa—“

There’s nothing calculated or methodical about the way Yuzuru reaches out and grabs the front of Javi’s shirt to pull their lips together – only adrenaline, pure impulse. It’s not his first kiss, but it might as well be what with his heart thundering wildly in his chest, and he has to force the tension out of his body to tilt his head into the kiss. Soon enough, Javi follows suit, relaxing against Yuzuru and bringing his hands to rest on Yuzu’s hips.

It could be a moment or an eternity later when they eventually draw apart, for all they know or care. Yuzuru searches Javi’s face for something, any kind of clue or hint as to where this thing is headed. He doesn’t have to look far, as the gaze Javi casts upon Yuzuru is full of warmth and gratitude and relief, and perhaps, he thinks, even something else blooming just beneath the surface.

Someone clears their throat down the hallway, snapping the two out of their shared reverie. It’s Coach, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth perked up in the slightest hint of an amused smirk. Yuzuru’s breath catches. They’ve been caught.

A beat later, Coach lifts his wrist, checking his watch. “Be out on the ice in five. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

He turns on his heel and walks back out into the rink, and Yuzuru thinks he catches sight of a full, ear-to-ear grin on his face. _Just like Coach_ , he thinks, _always knowing everything_.

They turn back to face each other. They’re searching for the words in a language they both struggle to access. It’s a new world now, and their vocabulary will need some time to adjust to the vastness of it.

Suddenly, Yuzuru smiles, and reaches for Javi’s hand, the palm slightly damp. He looks Javi squarely in the eyes. “I know.”

They’re simple words, but the meaning they carry is immense. Javi breathes a silent gasp, his shoulders tensing visibly, but moments later he relaxes again, his face melting into that familiar easy smile. Yuzuru offers a smile of his own, and in his mind he hears a word he found in the pages of the dictionary that feels more right than he could ever have dreamed – _hermoso_.

They walk into the rink hand in hand. Javi’s palm is warm against Yuzuru’s. He is calm.

He thinks he has found his new favorite word.


End file.
